Chapter Seventeen: Circles

The unveiling of Harley Quinn had been an unparalleled success, throwing Gotham into a spiral of denial, horror, and disgust at the downfall of one of their own and her actions. Her big baby blues and bright smile had appeared on the news regularly for a month after her disappearance, pleas from friends, coworkers and family, begging for any leads on her or the Joker's whereabouts. Naturally, the public grew to love her with all the positive coverage of her life and career. After awhile, despite police efforts to keep the story alive, the coverage tapered off, as it so often did in missing persons cases. The public lost interest, finding something else shiny. Then three months after her supposed kidnapping, all local Gotham news networks received an unlabeled video with a joker card. The disturbing content was on air within the hour, the anchors turning green on camera during the first airing.

The shaky camera focused on the Joker's face, close. "Good evening, Gotham," he said, directly into the lens, someone else filming him. "I do hope you haven't forgotten me because I certainly haven't forgotten you. No need for concern, though. I'm not ready to include you in my fun yet, even though my therapist says it's good for me to socialize. Speaking of, say hello, Harley Quinn."

The camera shifted, passed from one hand to the other. The video widened to show a grinning woman with a painted face. Her smile seemed unnatural, not forced, but almost as if the muscles in her face were stretching further than they should. Sinister and hungry all at once. In contrast to the Joker's messy makeup, hers was meticulously applied, white greasepaint from forehead to chin. Her lips were colored black, her cheeks painted with round red circles. But her eyes were the most disturbing, the merciless eyes of a psychopath. Her beautiful blue irises pierced through the black smudged eye shadow on her lids, pupils tiny as pinpoints. And beneath each eye, a black inverted triangle, the bottom half of a diamond. The image of a clown.

"Hello Gotham," she said, her voice held a promise of wicked things to come, filled with malice and lust.

Her long blond hair had been pulled up into two pigtails, high on each side of her head. The camera panned down from her face. She wore a ringmaster's jacket, the front cut at her waist, the back continuing further down to her thighs. One side of the jacket was red, the other was black. Large white cuffs at her wrist with black buttons, matching the buttons that held the jacket closed. The collar and lapel were covered in large black and white diamonds, the collar rising up high above her neck like the cowl of an upturned cape. Around her neck was a thick leather band with a shiny red diamond hanging from it, the letters HQ imprinted into the gloss. It didn't fully hide the bruises that lay underneath on her throat.

Under the jacket, barely visible was a red and black diamond patterned shirt that swooped well above the line of her breasts. Black leather gloves, similar in style to the Joker's. Her legs were covered in leather, one half black, the other red, opposing the colors on top. The outfit held a checkerboard look. Large diamonds ran down the outside of the pants, again the colors reversed from the background. The pants dived into calf-length boots, solid black. Her entire look was patchwork but evoking the image of the circus and of clowns.

When the camera focused back on her face, the Joker's voice could be heard in the background. "This fine upstanding citizen of your fair city has volunteered to join the game." Referring back to the last time he made a proclamation to Gotham, before his incarceration. Harley's wide smile faded into a smirk, far more natural, giving a mocking salute to the camera with one gloved hand. "Harley, dear, why don't you show everyone what you've been working on?"

The camera panned away from her and to a woman strapped to a chair, her mouth covered in duct tape, tears streaming from her eyes. The woman appeared to be in her forties with short red hair. She was covered in bruises and tiny cuts. Her eyes widened in fear as Harley straddled her on the chair, leaning in to lick one of the cuts. A muffled groan from her victim. She produced a knife out of her jacket, pressing the flat edge of the blade against the woman's cheek. But Harley didn't do anything, simply looked back to the camera, a look of impatience crossing her features.

"She's been having so much fun with our good friend, Barbara Gordon, haven't you?"

Harley nodded. "She's a real screamer, boss." Then she burst into psychotic laughter, gleefully bouncing up and down as she did.

Joker must have given a signal because Harley lit up and turned back to Barbara, moving the edge of the blade down to her already cut up neck, and making small, light slices. A brutal form of torture. The woman screamed against her gag, struggling against her bonds with each cut, tears streaming down her face from the pain. Every scream, Harley leaned down and made calming shushing noises to her, like she believed she was doing it for the woman's benefit, but felt bad that she had to do it.

Meanwhile, the voice over continued. "You see, Gotham, there is the truth that you know from the TV, and then there is the real truth. The real truth is that you've been lied to, tricked by those you consider to be untouchable. Namely one Commissioner Jim Gordon. The same secrets his wife keeps. Why? Because they're afraid of what you'd do, Gotham, if you knew the truth." The camera moved to behind Harley. "Off." His voice was a command.

The girl climbed off her victim, anger in her eyes as she moved out of sight of the camera. The camera shifted a second time and swung back to the Joker, this time a wider angle to show both him and the commissioner's wife. He pulled a gun from his pocket, looking directly to the camera. The screaming behind the gag became almost loud enough to drown out his words.

"She is as culpable as her husband. Demand the truth, Gotham, or someone else, possibly someone innocent, might pay the price next time."

Then he turned, aiming his gun at a wide-eyed, terrified Barbara Gordon and squeezed the trigger. A spray of blood burst from the wound in her lower chest as the camera swung away. The only sound heard was Harley's haunting laugh as the video ended.

Mr. J stared at her naked body from across the room, wiping the blood from his hands with a handkerchief. Sheer euphoria crossed Harley's face as she ran her fingers over the fresh cut on her outer left thigh. A sublime canvas to ride out his own high from the victory of the day's events. Her perfect makeup smeared across the sheets, her skin covered with the remnants of his own mask. He didn't allow her these moments often but she had done well in obeying his commands. She deserved a reward.

Tossing the piece of cotton aside, he pulled on his boxers. "I'm proud of you, Harley."

She beamed up at him before putting one of her blood soaked fingers to her lips, licking it sensually, with a pleased sound. He grabbed a roll of gauze off the dresser, tossing it beside her. "Wish you had let me shoot her," Harley commented out of the blue, reaching over to the nightstand to grab a pack of cigarettes. "Your aim was off. If any part of her shattered sternum punctured her stomach, she'll die in surgery. Thomas is good but he isn't good enough to defy nature."

Harley was always full of surprises. Riveting, really. Some moments, she was driven completely by her impulses, no care for anything but herself. Others, she seemed satiated, content to carry out a normal conversation with him or sit there listening as he talked about any number of subjects. Though her emotions would eventually explode on any topic, she would often display rationality, intelligence, and forethought, reminding him of their days in her office. She might have lost her control, but she never truly lost her mind.

"I'm a better shot than you," he replied, a smile crossing his lips as he reminisced. She was an artist in her own right, his harlequin, appreciating the visceral far more than he. And the joy it brought her more than made up for the mess. A shame she could rarely control herself when in the thrall of her destructive desires. It had been a long process to get her this far but her training was far from complete. For now, Mr. J was satisfied with her submission to his needs. Not flawless obedience but close enough. And soon, she would learn to act as one with his unspoken thoughts, only giving in to her urges when she believed he would approve.

"Just be grateful I let you play with her at all," he added.

Snorting, Harley lit up her cigarette. "Yeah, I wouldn't trust me with a gun, either." A puff of smoke exhaled from her lips, as her eyes watched him gather his clothing. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Phase two," was all he said, his eyes daring her to question him.

Placing the cigarette in the ashtray, she crawled to the end of the bed, kneeling. "But I haven't had a chance, yet, to thank you for your generosity." Her eyes became heated, her voice throaty. She reached out a hand to grasp the front of his unbuttoned shirt, tugging him back towards her.

He ran one of his hands down her loose locks, cupping her chin in his palm, forcing her head up, looking into those big blue eyes. Playful but serious. Lustful but earnest. She really did want to thank him. Not just for the day's events, but for everything he had done for her. It was a sacrifice, all those months, to get her to this point and she recognized that, for the first time. Harley was grateful that he took control of her chaos, giving her life some meaning. Breaking down her walls so that her guilt disappeared fully. She had killed twice since they began, and neither mark had appeared on her arm. Beyond morality, beyond remorse. Escaping the prison that society imposed on her.

She was truly his greatest masterpiece.

Her soft fingers trailed up his scarred chest, hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Their lips met, and Mr. J could feel the tears that fell down her cheeks on his tongue. She tasted like ashes and wild abandon. Pulling back, she rested her head against his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair.

"I love you, Mr. J," she whispered, her face warm against his skin, light kisses across his torso.

Glancing at the nightstand, he watched the smoke rise from the burning cigarette, knowing such fire could only burn for so long before dying. His hand tightened around her hair, yanking her head back again with a delighted squeal from her. Running his other hand down the front of her body, he smiled as his fingers fluttered over the branded diamond between her breasts, tracing the etched letter J in the center of it. A permanent reminder of the night in Gotham General when she first gave herself to him. She shuddered, as if reliving that memory in her mind as well.

Licking his lips, he looked into her eyes. "Harley, do you trust me?" he asked, posing the same question he had asked every night since she told him her story, repeating the same words her dead lover had so often whispered in her ear. Trust was not easy for her but until she gave herself to him fully, this was just a diversion, a fun game. And never the same answer from her, always fighting his control at every turn, the wild girl.

Beneath his hands, she stiffened noticeably. Her face became a myriad of emotional turmoil, a change from her usual biting retort to the question, flickering between hate, love, anger, lust, fear. Yes, a change, as he could see her ponder the question. But then a look settled across her features, an image he had never seen before, as if something clicked inside her mind. And she smiled.

"With my life," Harley responded, her entire body relaxing against him, absolute trust and faith shining from behind her eyes. She meant every word to her core.

Finally.

Mr. J smiled down at her, genuinely pleased with her, stroking her tear stained cheeks, her ruined makeup smearing on his fingers. Closing her eyes, she basked in his affections, kissing his fingers as they passed her lips. His beautiful Harley Quinn with the face of an angel and the body of a demon. He truly looked forward to beginning his real work on her. She was ready to understand the world as he saw it. Mr. J couldn't wait.

He leaned down to kiss her again, her hands lowering to pull down his boxers. Despite her honest revelation, she had become consumed by primal lust again. His laughter against her lips vibrated through the air of the bedroom. There was so much left to do but screw it. It had been a good day. With a smile, he pushed her head downwards.

Patience. Gotham could wait a little while longer.

Harleen Quinzel killed two guards and severely disfigured a nurse her first night in Arkham. It had been nearly a year since her original disappearance from the asylum, nine months since the public first saw the twisted woman that once had such a bright future. Joan was perplexed by the change in her former employee, not expecting such violence and cruelty from her. She wasn't in the examination room when the tragedy occurred, attending to a patient in another ward. But she saw the scene after, mentally imagining how Harleen lulled the two female guards into believing her harmless before grabbing their guns and shooting them both dead. Then she turned her attentions to the nurse.

It was the same nurse who administered the wrong drugs to the Joker so long ago.

Afterwards, they found Harleen passively sitting on the examination table, the gun on the ground, the nurse passed out in the corner, a gash ripping out from her lips. The Glasgow smile that Harleen's lover was known for. When they approached her, she dropped the knife from her hands, with a feral sneer. "Mr. J is the only one allowed to see my body."

She was tossed into maximum security solitary immediately, still wearing her black and red wardrobe, giving Dr. Leland a chance to decide on how to approach the situation. Rather than impair the already damaged psyche of her former friend, she decided to grant her some dignity, striking a deal. In return for allowing Joan, and Joan alone, to examine her, Harleen would be allowed a full length uniform and privacy for showering. She accepted without hesitation.

Joan almost wished she hadn't, keeping the horror she felt to herself, as Harleen stripped off her clothing. But Harleen gave her a knowing smirk, seeing beyond the clinical mask, understanding the sight unveiled. It was hard to stay professional seeing the battered body of her friend, wanting to shake her and ask "why would you ever let anyone do this to you?" The older scars were disturbing, but truly, more appalling were the bruises that covered over half of her body, the fresh cuts covered in gauze, and other unidentifiable recent injuries. Holding her tongue, Joan treated the wounds that needed it, even going so far as to offer her friend a pain killer. Harleen declined.

A day later, sitting in her ground floor office, Joan quickly found something even more unsettling than the countless injuries; Harleen's unwavering obsession with the Joker, a devotion that sparked joy in her eyes every time his name was mentioned, despite his apparent victimization of her. The session also became frustrating as Harleen refused to answer any questions posed to her.

"Do you understand that the nature of your relationship with the Joker is abusive?"

Harleen tilted her head, curiously, her mood shifting, her eyes flickering around the room. Joan observed this happen multiple times, her reactions differing to her varied questions. Almost giving her answers without speaking. Harleen didn't seem to mind the straight jacket that wrapped around her, not struggling with it. In fact, she had been eerily docile since the previous night. Only one small incident in the morning caused any alarm, when Harleen, on her way down to Dr. Leland's office, passed by Jonathan Crane who was being led away from Dr. Arkham's office. He yelped in terror as she winked at him, lending credence to his tale that Dr. Quinzel had been the one to damage him and not the Joker as most believed.

"Do you love him?" Joan inquired, after a few silent minutes.

Harleen's features softened, a smile crossing her lips, speaking for the first time. "Yes."

Delighted at the response, Joan tried to keep her voice steady as she asked the one question she'd been dying to know. "Why?"

"Why?" Harleen's face twisted in disbelief, another mood change to anger. "You ask me why? Are you fucking blind?"

"Now Harleen, there's no need to get upset," Joan said gently.

But she continued, talking over Joan's words. "I shouldn't be surprised that a coward like you would ask that question because you can never comprehend how it even happened, despite everything being laid at your feet." Harleen grinned, a twisted caricature, her eyes becoming more intense. "I wonder, how did it feel when Mr. J pressed his blade against your skin, demanding you call me? Were your terrified out of your skull as so many others have been? Did you cry? Piss yourself? You sounded so calm on the phone you called me, setting all these wheels in motion, practically pushing me into his arms. All to save your own life from a psychopath who was obviously intent on destroying mine. You traded my life for yours."

Joan stilled, her eyes widening, as Harleen continued her verbal assault. "The guilt must be killing you, Joan, knowing that you're responsible for all of this. Assigning me Mr. J's case. Failing to see the signs of his growing obsession towards me, or mine towards him. And you just let it slide when I confessed I had no video evidence of our sessions. That should have been a clue that I wasn't playing by the rules anymore, especially considering how I reacted when that nurse messed up his meds. But no, you just turned on your blinders, believing my lies, giving him the opportunity to slip under my barriers." She breathed heavily, unleashing her fury through words. Joan was certain if Harleen had not been restrained, she would have attacked physically.

"How many times have you replayed that night in your mind, wondering if there was something you could have done differently? Maybe if you'd said no, taken your licks, you could have prevented the deaths of all those I've killed since I met him. Or after he locked you in the closet, if you had just kicked down the door instead of hiding in the corner and praying no one would harm you, that nurse wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed, trying not to scream from the pain, knowing it will split her face wider. Does it sting, Joan, to know that everything that's happened has been because of your incompetence?"

Joan blanched, tears filling her eyes, listening so intently to her greatest fears coming out of Harleen's lips. "I...I..." She couldn't think of a response.

The anger dropped out of Harleen's face, so suddenly that it jarred Joan, a gentle smile replacing it immediately. "Thank you so much Joan, for bringing us together. I truly appreciate it from the bottom of my heart."

Joan rushed out of the room without another word, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill down her face. A minute later, while collecting herself in the ladies room, she nearly fell as the floor beneath her feet shook harshly. Grasping onto the sink to stay upright, she heard the huge booming sound that echoed throughout the building. She recognized the sound of an explosion. The second one in two years. With a curse, she exited the bathroom, heading to her office, only to find the source. The outer wall of her office was decimated, chunks of debris everywhere, including where she had been sitting only minutes before.

The couch where Harleen had been sitting was empty, save for her straight jacket. And a letter addressed to Joan.

Later, when time allowed, Joan sat down with Harleen Quinzel's file, the letter, and the video of Harleen's session that she was able to pull from the ruins of her office. Two photographs stared up from the file. The first was Harleen's employee photo, clean and pristine. The second was her mugshot, her eyes crazed, makeup smeared. Pressing play on the video, she picked up the letter and began to read.

Dear Joan,

I apologize for my harsh words. I don't blame you for anything that's happened and neither should you. Some things are just destined to happen and nothing can stop fate. You ask why I love him. Because I need him as much as he needs me and for the first time in my life, I am genuinely happy. I know you believe he is abusing me, but I welcome every blow, every cut. He doesn't do it because he's cruel. He does it because he's kind. Without him, I would be ten times worse. Now, I have purpose, as an extension of his will. I have found freedom from the prison I placed around myself so long ago.

I don't expect you to understand. But since this probably won't be the last time I'm sent to Arkham, I don't want to waste your time. There are some people who can never be fixed, the damage is too deep. You and I both know this. I'm one of them. I don't want your help. I don't need your help. No amount of medication or therapy will change who I am at my core.

I am chaos embodied and I will forever belong to him.

Love, HQ

Folding the letter, Joan leaned back in her chair, watching the video. Hearing the vicious words from her friend's mouth a second time. Watching herself leave the room. A minute passed as Harleen looked up to the clock behind the camera, Joan could easily follow the line of her eyes. Then a smirk crossed her mouth, as she stared directly at the camera. "Boom," she said, a second before the wall exploded.

The image tilted, fell to the ground, and then went to fuzz, as a piece of shrapnel damaged the camera. For all the writing in the letter, Harleen wasn't truly lost. She spoke those cruel words with the intention of getting Joan out of the room. Her friend saved her life, Joan realized. And it reminded her of a conversation they had, the one that convinced her that Dr. Quinzel was the perfect candidate to take the Joker's case.

Staring down at the letter, reading the words "I don't need your help" for a second time, Joan couldn't stop the smile that crossed her face. Moving her eyes over to the first photograph, she remembered, fondly, the smell of coffee and the careful responses of her former colleague.

"I have to try, even if it won't help," Joan whispered to the photo, before closing the file, hoping wherever Harleen Quinzel was, she would understand.

End

A/N: I want to thank all those who have been following, reviewing, or PMing with me over the course of this story. I absolutely loved writing this piece and I'm thrilled that other people seem to love it too. I am working on a sequel piece right now so hopefully something will be up in the next month, so keep an eye out.

If you've been following and haven't yet reviewed, please do. I'd love to hear your feedback on this story as a whole. The good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between. Feedback is vital to improvement as a writer.

And to give you all an idea of what I had in mind for Harley's costume, send me a PM or leave a review to ask for it. I am a terrible artist but wanted to give you a glimpse of what I was thinking of for a Nolanverse Harley, if you're interested. If any of you are skilled artists, hit me up. I'd love a not-crappy version of it.

Again, thank you all very much and I look forward to writing more for you all!